


A Christmas Carol

by LeandraLocke



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeandraLocke/pseuds/LeandraLocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around Christmas 1962, Erik gets a nightly visit by a strange woman with extraordinary abilities who claims to be the Ghost of Christmas Past, Present and Future. Despite his objections – after all, such things only exist in stories – she takes him on a journey to re-discover himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will be posting one chapter every day, ending on Christmas Eve.  
> Many thanks to my two beta readers yourareunearthlything and sonicshotguns, and also merci beaucoup to gabrielmanga who helped me with some French lines in the first chapter (translations at the bottom).

**Budapest, December 21st 1962**

  
Golden lights illuminated the streets and houses, a warm glow against the darkness of the evening sky. Yet, there were stars visible on the midnight blue canopy if one were to look past the lanterns and fairy lights. A crystal clear, starry night that promised crispy cold to chase away the humid warmth so unusual for this time of year. Maybe it would even snow, come tomorrow. The prospect certainly delighted the children most of all. Their laughter and cheerful calls would fill the snowy streets, sleighs and snowball fights, while the adults busied themselves with the last required errands, three days before Christmas Eve.

  
He should have gone somewhere else, somewhere more secluded and less… happy, Erik thought as he pulled the curtains of his hotel room shut. The lights were gone, but the noises coming from the streets that night could not be drowned out. Song and chatter and the faint sound of an accordion swept in through the leaky windows, and a minute later something shattered and laughter filled the air. Hungarians certainly knew how to celebrate – a little too well.

  
Erik slumped down onto the bed, leaning against the headboard. He was too indifferent to bother switching on the lights, though the darkness and quiet inside the room allowed his thoughts to wander. He would not have needed to be alone – not on Christmas per se since he did not care for the holiday, probably wouldn't have even if he weren't Jewish – but in general.

  
He had kidded himself. He had been under the illusion that he could start something new with Shaw's mutants, with Raven and Emma Frost. An entourage of people valuing and following his views and approaches, at least. A family at best. But that had been foolish to hope for. Foolish to even consider in the first place when he had left _them_ behind that day on the Cuban beach.

  
Like a stubborn child: one that couldn't bear criticism or difference in opinion and simply ran away, a voice somewhere in the back of his mind wanted to tell him. He pushed the thought away. There was no use to dwell on these thoughts, and much less in pondering on who was to blame. What was done was done, and there was no turning back. At least not to _them_ , to _him_ ; and the others simply were not replacement enough. He was better off alone.

  
He must have fallen asleep sometime after that, because when his mind slowly drifted back to consciousness the first thing he was aware of was the lack of any covers above him, his body still fully clad in his day clothes but chilly nonetheless. The second thing he noticed was a rhythmical, soft tapping sound. Maybe something rapping against the window, he thought while his body was still too lazy to move to get out of his clothes and under the covers as he probably should. But then, when he noticed that the noise seemed too close to be coming from the window, another one joined it: the clear and distinguishable sound of someone clearing their throat.

  
Erik sat bolt upright. The metal switch of the bedside lamp obeyed his mental command as the knife which he kept in the half-open top drawer at all times came hurtling into his hand simultaneously.

  
"Pah-pah-pah, now put that away, will you?" Even before his eyes, squinting against the sudden brightness, could fully make out the figure standing mere steps away from his bed, the blade flew back out of his hand and landed on the wooden floor with a clang. "That's not very polite of you to threaten me with a weapon," the intruder spoke with a slightly higher-pitched woman's voice, docile in sound but nonetheless mocking. "I mean you no harm."

  
His eyes had adjusted to the light now, and Erik had mentally reached out for the nearest metal object – the lamp – to defend himself if necessary. "Neither is it polite to break into someone's room while he's sleeping," Erik replied finally, his tone distrustful and low as he took in the woman in front of him – a young looking, rather petite blonde with shoulder-length curls around her heart-shaped face. One hand was on her hip, the other slightly raised and pointing towards him, and she was wearing a long, very soft gown of a creamy, golden and shimmering color. "Who are you? And what the hell do you want?"

  
The stranger shrugged and took another step closer, her hand now trailing over the foot of the bed. "Let's just say I have special abilities too," she replied with a smile and let her gaze briefly drift to the knife on the floor.

"You're like me," Erik concluded, somewhat surprised as on how the other mutant could have found him, and still clueless as to what she may want.

"I'm nothing like you," the woman chuckled. "I have a rather functioning social life and none of those repressed, built-up dark emotions."

No matter who she was, Erik felt less threatened by her and her obvious telekinetic powers – maybe telepathic as well – as simply annoyed, and he did not suppress the sneer that crossed his lips. "Well, thank you, Dr. Freud. Let me rephrase the question then: why are you here?"

"I'm here because you need me," she replied simple as that, and the lack of any sarcasm or mockery in both her tone and expression baffled him slightly.

"Need you for what? I was not aware that I needed anyone at present."

"Ah, you see, that's the point," she said and rounded the foot end of the bed. Erik immediately tightened his mental grip on the lamp and felt for the knife as well, just in case. But the other mutant sat down on the edge of his bed rather casually, her hands in her lap as she turned her upper body to face him. "Because, if you knew that you needed me you wouldn't need me at all."

"I think you lost me."

"I think you know what I'm talking about," she said, her voice now a lot gentler as she looked at him, and he noticed then that she had the palest gray eyes he had ever seen. "If you knew you needed someone to help you, you would turn to those that could. All that emptiness and darkness inside you, Erik, that's what

I'm talking about. And I want to show you how you can get rid of it."

"What are you? A traveling psychotherapist for mutants?" Erik asked with cool sarcasm, eyebrows raised, but inside he could not suppress the vague sense of feeling… caught.

"No," she replied. "I'm the ghost of Christmas Past."

This time, Erik couldn't help but laugh out. "Of course you are."

She smiled, and Erik rolled his eyes, losing his patience with her and her cryptic nonsense.

"I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm Jewish, I don't even celebrate Christmas," he tried, not sorry at all.

"Ah, well, then let's say I'm the ghost of the Holiday Season. Hanukkah, right?"

"Was over last night," Erik informed her, mildly enjoying the fact that her strategy didn't play out.

"Well, never you mind," she replied, now somewhat disgruntled and impatient herself. "That doesn't change the fact that I'm here to help. The time of year is just convenient for it."

She was a stubborn one, indeed. "Look, I don't know what you think you want to do to help me so kindly, but I didn't ask nor do I care for your help. Now, we can finish this in a civil manner and I will simply ask you to leave, or we could –"

But Erik was never able to finish his sentence. Quicker than he could have reacted, she raised her hand again, two fingers pointing up towards his forehead, and suddenly everything around him, the room, the bed and even her shape in front of him vanished in a whirl of shimmering fog, making him feel weightless and dizzy.

He almost stumbled and fell when he suddenly felt ground beneath his feet and realized he was standing up, though it took another few seconds until the fog lifted and he could make out his surroundings. Baffled, not to say shocked, he looked around and couldn't believe his eyes.

"Do you recognize the place?" The stranger stood right beside him; he could see the outline of her from the corner of his eye, but his gaze was fixed on the opposite wall of the room he found himself in. Erik's heart hammered in his chest with terrible amazement, and for a second he really considered that her words must be true somehow, because he was looking at the interior of no other place than the small apartment in Düsseldorf he had grown up in before he and his family had been cast out to one of the ghettos. Everything was as he had remembered it – or rather as he had desperately tried to forget over the years. There was a tapestry on the wall and a small cupboard beneath, the menorah from that year's Hanukkah still standing on it with some more decorative items. Beside it was a bookshelf with all the literature, foreign and native, that his father had collected. And as he let his gaze drift further through what once had been their combined living room and kitchen he almost toppled backwards in sheer shock.

There at the wooden kitchen table sat his mother with what looked like a shirt or blouse in her lap, sewing on a button, and beside her his father, a book in front of him on the table and his reading spectacles low on his nose. But what startled him almost more than the sight of them was the young boy, eight years of age, sitting on the ground next to them and playing with a wooden horse and sheep – the favorite and pretty much only toys Erik had owned then.

"Mama? Papa?" He could not help the words slipping out from his lips, though they were choked in the back of his throat with the constricting feeling that had spread through his chest. Nobody looked up at him.

"They can neither see nor hear you," the woman beside him said gently. "You're only here to observe."

Erik could not draw his gaze from his family even if he had wanted to, and he had to fight the desperate feeling clinging onto his insides that made him want to rush toward them, try to touch them, hug them and forget the past twenty-five years had happened.

"Mama, I'm bored," his younger self said with a slightly pouting tone and got up from the floor, setting both horse and sheep carefully onto the table. His mother looked at him with a smile.

"But you've been playing with your toys."

"Yes, but I don't want to play with them anymore. I want to go out, it's snowing."

A glance to the window told Erik that, indeed, thick white snowflakes were falling onto the window sill and melting on the glass.

"It's too late, Erik," his father interjected, "but we'll go out again tomorrow morning. Then there'll be even more snow and we can build a snowman."

"And I'll have the place to myself and get some work done," his mother said with a chuckle, sighing faintly as she put the item of clothing away. There was only candle light illuminating the room; they did not have much money to use electricity ever since his father had lost his trading business when the premises had been given to a German shop owner.

"Mama, you can come with us. We'll help you with your work," eight-year-old Erik said and reached for his mother's hand, letting her hug him close as he stood next to her chair.

"Really? Well, let's see. I need to let out your fine trousers, fix the shirt you tore last week and sew all those buttons back on your Papa always manages to lose. Honestly, Jakob, how do you do that?"

His father chuckled and shrugged apologetically, and something impish flashed up in his gray-green eyes. "Maybe you don't sew them on tightly enough?"

“I don't think... I can help you with that,” little Erik said somewhat apologetically.

His mother just rolled her eyes at his father but laughed at the teasing comment and shook her head when Jakob reached out and affectionately grasped her other hand on the table surface.

Suddenly, the sound of quickly scurrying footsteps could be heard on the hallway of the four-story house and rapid, excited knocking against the door a moment later.

"Erik? Erik!"

Erik recognized the voice immediately and his heart gave another painful thud as he watched his younger self run towards the front door and tearing it open. A smaller boy, almost two years younger and with bright blond hair rushed in even before the door was fully opened. "Look what I got for Christmas! A train!!" And indeed, the boy was carrying a brand new, shiny hand-painted toy train into the living room, sitting down square on the only rug on the floor and letting it roll back and forth.

"Oh, it's great, Anton," the younger Erik said and beamed at his friend as he knelt down on the floor as well.

"Isn't it? So much better than the old one, and bigger too. And look how fast it can go." While the two children already started playing, Anton's parents walked in, closing the front door behind them and greeting the Lehnsherrs.

"I'm so sorry," Frau Beckmeyer said as she walked towards Erik's parents. Her hair was as blonde as her son's, a tall and beautiful woman that always wore the finest clothes, while her husband was rather skinny and slightly shorter than her with mousy hair that started to thin out already. He always smiled though, like he did now when he addressed his neighbors.

"You know how the boys are. Inseparable."

"Yes, I know," Erik's mother chuckled and watched them with an affectionate smile on her lips from the distance.

"Oh, we have a little something for you," Frau Beckmeyer said. "I know you don't celebrate Christmas, but we wanted to get you something anyway. I hope you'll accept."

"Oh, I don't know. Really, Hildegard, you shouldn't have."

"Nonsense, Esther. It's not much anyway. Just something to drink for you and Jakob to enjoy, and a few of the cookies I baked for Erik."

"Cookies?" Anton piped up and briefly abandoned his efforts to run the train against young Erik's shoe.

"You already had enough tonight, young man," his father said. "And we still got plenty downstairs. These are for Erik and his parents."

"Oh, alright. Oh, and can I give Erik my old toy train? Erik, do you want it? You can come play with this one anytime, if you like, though."

As the two families chattered on, opening presents and watching their boys play, Erik finally closed his eyes for a moment, blinking against the moisture he had not even noticed forming in them. "Why are you showing me this?" he asked his strange companion and felt a hand on his upper arm then.

"Because you need to see that you were once happy, Erik," she replied. "And that there's a lot of good in the world, even in times when it becomes difficult to see."

He glanced over to the Beckmeyers again who had sat down at the kitchen table with the Lehnsherrs to be served a cup of tea, and Erik remembered. They had been one of the privileged German families, not immensely rich but well-off enough with Peter being a popular pianist and private teacher. They had always opposed the Nazi regime, Social Democrats to the core that had risked their necks to help the Lehnsherrs not being deported to the ghetto in 1939 – in vain.

"That is all good and well," Erik replied, not allowing the sadness and heartache at the sight get the better of him. It soon evolved into anger that he directed towards the other mutant, his voice and stare cold, as he turned to face her. "But it lies in the past, and I don't quite see where you're heading with this anyway.

Are you suggesting I should try to find Anton?"

The other mutant's gaze turned sad as she shook her head. "No, that would be redundant. You see, he died during one of the bombings in the war. Hildegard had died two years previously during childbirth because there weren't enough doctors, and Peter in the war. He was drafted during the final phase despite his age."

A whole family extinguished by the horrors of warfare. "You're doing a poor job at proving your point that there's so much good in this world," Erik said bitterly.

A few steps away, Anton was hugging his older friend for no particular reason other than being happy and untroubled, oblivious to what would follow and what was already happening around them.

"Am I?" she asked, and somehow Erik got the impression she didn't really need to hear an answer.

"Time to go. There are still a few things you need to see," she said and grasped Erik's wrist. Before he could protest, could plead with her to let him stay just a little longer, let him look at his parents again, that fog engulfed them and he was being sucked into a whirl of dust.

When it settled this time, he found himself standing on muddy ground.

"Why the hell did you…" But Erik stopped himself there, feeling pathetic and weak for wanting to beg. He just shook himself free of her grasp and let his eyes scan the surroundings. It was drizzling slightly, ice-cold drops turning the sandy soil into mud and not much to be seen beyond that due to the pitch-black night.

Just the shape of a wooden barn house with a run-down fence to their right. Erik recognized it immediately.

Behind him, he once again heard the sounds of footsteps, this time smacking in the muddy ground as the figure hurried past them and into the barn, her long black hair clinging in moist waves to her thin coat. Erik and his companion followed her inside, though Erik wasn't exactly sure why he even did. A part of him didn't want to play this game any longer, to relive moments that now caused him nothing but pain, but it was as if he had lost the ability to control his own body, as if something was pulling him inevitably inside and towards the soft glow of the gas lamp inside the barn. Another figure sat there in the hay, a threadbare blanket wrapped around the shivering form. The girl knelt down beside him.

"Voilá. Seulement du pain, mais je vais t'apporté quelques pommes demain. D'accord?"

The other Erik, sixteen years of age now, looked up with tired eyes, his cheeks sunken and pale and his whole frame so thin that it startled the older Erik to see himself like that. He had completely forgotten how sick he had been that winter around Christmas, shortly after he had escaped from Schmidt.

The teenage Erik nodded and took the bread from her, hastily tearing a piece off and stuffing it in his mouth. The girl smiled contently.

"Tu m'as compris? Désolé mais je ne parles pas Allemand."

The younger Erik swallowed down the lump of bread and nodded at the girl, giving her a very faint smile which he found so much harder to muster then as he had done a few years previously. "Oui," he replied hesitantly. "Merci."

"Ah, bon. Maman m'a dit que tu parles un petit peu français. Je m’appelle Claire. Et tu est Erik?"

"Oui, Erik," he replied.

"Comment ça ce fait? Est-ce-que tu as appris français à l'école?"

"Non," Erik replied, swallowing another bite and forcing down a cough. "Mon père ma appris."

"How long did you stay with them?" The other mutant asked, tearing Erik from listening in on the conversation going on between the two teenagers.

"Don't you know? You seem to know everything so well," he replied, again fighting with the sense of melancholy and longing that filled his heart at the sight of the scene.

"Two months, right?"

"Yes," Erik replied and kept watching. Claire chatted on about how well Erik's pronunciation was, and that she and her mother would let him stay in the main house but were afraid that her father would forbid it. Two months later, it had been him to cast Erik out even though Claire had tried to fight it vehemently. Two months that, while Erik had hid in the hayloft when Monsieur Funès had been home, had helped him regain his strength. And sometimes even forget some of the horrors he had lived through the past two years.

"What a sweet girl," his companion remarked, and it made Erik only angrier.

"Now you're going to tell me she died as well, I suppose?" he snapped, really not seeing the point of all of this.

"Oh, no, she didn't. She's still alive. Married with three kids and lives in Marseilles now."

The knowledge made him neither happy nor regretful, or even jealous as it could have. Her affections for him then – even if he had shared them in a way, drawn to her physically as the first person to show him such affections in his adolescence – had not touched him as much as they should have. He had been too broken to allow himself to love or trust, and even though he had feebly hoped for her to mend his heart and soul with the gentleness she showed him, a part of him had known then already that it was impossible.

"Oh I'm not so sure," the other mutant said, and for a moment Erik wondered whether she was referring to the information she had just disclosed or something else he had missed… until it sunk in that she must somehow have known what he had been thinking. "Hardly anything is ever completely beyond repair, least of all the human soul," she explained.

"You're forgetting that I'm not human," he said defensively.

"That is nonsense. You are human just like anybody else. Your abilities don't make you less human, just different in a certain field, but essentially you're still as human as you were as a child, as were your parents and this girl over there. You feel and think like them, you need to eat like them, and you long for the same things every person on this planet longs for, Erik."

"Right now I only long for you to bring me back to my time and leave me alone," he said dismissively, wanting to ignore the impact her words were having on him.

As his gaze drifted to Claire and his younger self, he saw the girl brush his hand, saw the tiny smile that spread on teenage Erik's lips again. And he wondered…

"There's something else I want to show you. Let's go."

Again, the fog surrounded him and tore him away from the sight and from the bittersweet memories connected to it. When he became aware of his surroundings he was nearly blinded by a myriad of candles and fairy lights, bright red and golden orbs on a tall Christmas tree reflecting their light in the large, expensively decorated living room. Even if he hadn't remembered exactly where he was, Erik would have clearly recognized it as the house of someone of immense wealth.

And it became clear on second glance why: there were vitrines full of antique platters and goblets, jewelry and books, and original paintings on the walls that would bring a fortune were they ever sold. He knew what these items were: the possessions of Jews and other regime opponents that had been stripped of all their property during the war, and when it had ended, many of the high officers had been able to escape and secure some of the treasure of his people for their own enrichment. The thought disgusted him as much as it had then.

"I know what is going to happen here, but I'm not exactly sure why you chose to show me this," he said impatiently, looking over at the blonde woman next to him.

She shrugged faintly and pointed towards the door where a short, round man in his late fifties stood, talking to someone else out of sight.

"But I'm sure we can talk about this. Please!" The man tried to uphold the illusion that he was calm, but Erik knew now as he had known then – clear to tell from the shivering and the way his eyes widened – that the man was very frightened.

"Ah, I'm sorry, but I didn't come here to talk," the other Erik said coldly, and a second later his hand had wrapped around the man's throat and pushed him into the living room and against the wall next to the door. "I came to take back what you stole from my people, and what you and your kind stole from me," he growled as the man whimpered and choked. One of the metal electric candle lamps on the wall transformed gruesomely and wrapped around the man's wrist, holding him firmly in place.

"Please, please, I beg you, just take whatever you want. Take it," the man now cried, clearly unable to process how the strange intruder could do something as odd as bending metal without touching it, sheer horror on his features.

"I plan to do just that," the other Erik, who was only a few years younger than the observer, said as he approached the vitrines. He had a black linen bag in his hand, black as the clothing he wore that night when he had broken into the villa in the South of Italy. He had no use for the trinkets even though they did belong to his people, or what once had been it. Somehow, ever since the war, Erik had been unable to connect himself to anything or anyone. He was neither German, nor Jewish, nor even human, but a freak of nature, and his only purpose was to seek revenge. Nevertheless, a few of the most valuable items ended up in his bag – he would sell them to Museums and private families in Israel to cover his expenses. Another item was in his hand, its fine metal surface soft and warm on his skin as Erik inspected the letter opener more closely.

"Please, just let me go. I have family," the old Nazi begged as the letter opener began to hover above Erik's hand. "I never killed anyone. I was just an administrator. Please, don't kill me, please! I have a wife and a daughter. She's getting married next week. Please, don't…"

But before the man could say more, could reveal further details that might turn him from monster back to a human being in Erik's eyes, the blade hurtled through the air and landed straight in the man's chest. He screamed out in pain and terror before blood started to ooze from his mouth, and he slid down the wall, choking and gargling. The other Erik did not even turn to look but only went out of the room with swift steps, his work done.

The older Erik, however, could not draw his eyes from the photograph of a smiling and beautiful young woman standing between an elderly woman and the same man that now hung lifeless from the metal restraints around his arm.

Fog surrounded Erik and everything turned back to gray.

Erik sat bolt upright in his bed again, his heart hammering in his chest as his clouded mind and sight found its way back into the here and now. But... it was dark again in his hotel room, and no sound was to be heard except for the distant howling of the wind outside.

“Hello?” He called softly, switching on the bedside lamp, but there was no reply. Nothing to be seen in the entire room or the adjacent bathroom – he could look inside the tiny cabin through the open sliding doors. He stood up nonetheless, peeking first inside the bath and then into every corner of the room until he walked to the door, finding it locked from the inside as he had left it long before he had gone to sleep.

He cursed himself for the panic he had allowed to rise, feeling utterly ridiculous. No matter how real it all had felt, it had been nothing but a dream. There were no ghosts of Christmas Past, and the likelihood of a mutant with not only telekinetic and telepathic abilities but also that to teleport all together was beyond low. A dream. Nothing more. A shockingly and unusually vivid dream, but its contents explicable.

Erik pushed it and every emotion it had stirred into the back of his mind as he finally undressed and got underneath the covers of his bed.

Strangely, he did not find sleep again that night.

~ TBC ~


	2. Chapter 2

**December 22nd 1962**

It had indeed started snowing early in the morning, and by the time Erik had woken up, after what could hardly qualify as more than a nap during the late morning hours, the streets and houses were covered with nearly a foot of snow. He had considered leaving Budapest – after all it had just been a random destination he had picked on his route to nowhere – but that would need to be postponed to a later day now.

Erik had no real concerns that the strange woman would pay him another nightly visit; the more he had thought about it during the day the more convinced he was that it really couldn't have been anything but a dream. Nevertheless, there was something in the back of his mind that made him feel uneasy in the confines of the tiny hotel room, though he could not quite pinpoint where the feeling had come from.

Maybe it was just the fact that he was literally stuck there, ice and snow making it nearly impossible to travel any farther than to the restaurant downstairs or maybe the tavern next door. The first he only did out of necessity, and the latter he rejected and instead sat in the dim light of his room, reading a book that didn't quite catch his full attention so that he had to read the pages and paragraphs twice or more to take in the content.

The lack of sleep the previous night must have taken its toll sooner than expected, because Erik found himself once more waking up fully dressed and with the bedside lamp still on this time, though it was impossible to tell whether he had just dozed off for a few minutes or slept deeply for several hours. Rubbing his eyes, he slowly sat up and blinked a few times to chase away the cloudiness of fatigue in his eyes. Then, he practically flinched and pressed his back against the headboard of the bed, staring in utter surprise at the figure standing in front of his bed.

“Oh, hello there. Finally woke up?” Just a hint of teasing in the soft voice, the very same he had heard the previous night, and the smiling face was the same as well. Her whole attire, however, was as different to her last appearance as it could be. Instead of blonde curls framing her face, there were long, lush, dark red waves falling over her shoulders, and her eyes were as emerald green as the silky dress she was wearing.

Strangely, the change in looks confused Erik more than her sudden presence could have, and he was also confused more than he was threatened. This time, he did not mentally reach out for the lamp or the knife but just stared up at her for the longest moment, wondering how it was possible that his subconscious created such odd scenarios in his dreams.

“Well, hello,” she repeated with emphasis and came a step closer.

“Who the hell are you?” It was the first thing that slipped from Erik's lips then, the tone of his voice much less dignified than he would have liked.

She shrugged and smiled. “Tonight, I'm the ghost of Christmas Present,” she said and examined herself, her hands reaching for the soft material of her dress skirt and spreading it out a little. “Do you like it?”

“Marvelous,” Erik managed to remark at last, having regained some of his composure.

“I thought the colors were a bit more Christmas-y and the look more contemporary. Fits better to where we're going tonight.”

It's just a dream. Just a crazy, messed up, cruel dream, Erik told himself as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose... a second before he decided to pinch his lower arm so he'd wake up. When he opened his eyes again, however, she was still standing there, her head slightly crooked and brows raised. So maybe it wasn't a dream after all. Maybe she really was a mutant with multiple abilities. Or a ghost, as she claimed, a fairy or sprite. Or maybe, she was just a figment of his imagination and he was simply going insane.

“Don't you want to ask where we're going? You seem awfully quiet tonight,” she said almost consolingly as she took yet another step closer. And that was when Erik bolted and hurried out of the bed on the other side.

“I don't want to go anywhere with you. Just... leave me alone,” he called and immediately cursed himself for losing his calm and cool with her.

The stranger sighed. “Erik, come on. It's pointless to fight me. You've seen what I can do last night. But actually, I don't want to force you to come with me. I'd much rather you simply agreed. Aren't you curious? At least a little bit?”

Truth be told, he was, but he was also annoyed beyond measures, and honestly frightened as well.

“Christmas Present?” he asked and wondered what he may see. If all of this really was just an illusion of his subconscious then it couldn't be that bad, could it? No real scenarios he could actually recall from memory that would draw him back into a past he had tried to forget.

“That's right,” she answered. “I'm going to show you what is going on with the people you care about, because I don't think you're aware of most of it.”

Charles. It was the first thought that came to his mind, unbidden and unwanted. He had tried not to think of him those past weeks. Every time his thoughts had strayed in the direction of the weeks he'd spent with Charles and his mutants, or worse, that day on the beach in Cuba, he had forced himself to think of something else and push any memory away. But now, a part of him was ready to surrender, the deep sense of longing making his insides heavy. Maybe he needed to see Charles one more time, even if just in his imagination, one more time to say goodbye and finally move on. To be free again.

“Well, then let's get this over with,” he said and came closer.

The stranger smiled and reached for his hand which he allowed her to take, and a second later that misty swirl surrounded them and he knew he had left the hotel room.

When the fog lifted, he surprisingly found himself standing in the hallway of not the mansion in Westchester but the house he had briefly occupied with the others in Massachusetts. It was smaller, furniture and décor a lot more modern, and he could spot a few recent changes still, more white and silver and cream colors as was Emma's preference.

“Fine, be a whining bitch then,” he heard a cool but not too loud voice calling from the room to his right, and a second later a figure emerged, rushing past Erik and his companion so quickly that he instinctively took a step to the side to avoid a collision. Raven stormed into the adjacent room and the door slammed shut.

Erik looked back at the other mutant with raised eyebrows.

“We can still follow. Just come with me,” she said, taking him by the hand and then, before he could fully grasp what she was about to do, she simply led him _through_ the closed door as if they were walking through air.

“That... is new,” he said in mild amazement and saw the woman next to him shrug and smile briefly.

“We didn't need it last night.”

Erik decided to simply accept this as an explanation; his attention was already back at Raven who was pacing the room with quick strides.

“Oh honey, I'm sorry,” she spat mockingly in what had to be an imitation of Emma Frost, “but I won't make contact with Xavier.” She paused briefly, having reached the end of the room and looking out of the window, just to turn around and walk the same distance back the next moment. “You chose your allegiances. Now deal with it. Deal with it?! I never chose this!!” Mocking condescension turned into a desperate outcry, arms thrown up in the air before Raven let herself fall face forward onto her bed.

“God... Shit!” she cursed, and to Erik it sounded like the anger was now at least partially addressed at herself, maybe for the sob that escaped from her a second later as she buried her head in the pillow.

Erik did not quite know what to make of this. During the first weeks with Shaw's mutants it had seemed that Raven had settled in well; especially she and Angel had rekindled what little friendship they had built during the brief recruiting phase, and even Azazel had proven to be capable of more kindness than one may think due to his rather rough stance and appearance. It did not seem to be enough for Raven, though, clear to tell from the bitter tears that rolled down her cheeks and the heaving sobs that shook her chest when she had turned to lie on her side, knees pulled up to her chest.

“I don't understand this,” Erik told his companion, though a part of him thought he should have a vague idea.

“Well, clearly she misses Charles and the others,” the other woman – Erik should have asked her for her name, but now was not the right moment – said and looked back to Raven with a regretful smile on her lips.

“But she made a decision. The others never fully accepted her for what she was, not even...” Thinking the name was one thing, uttering it a completely different one, and Erik took a deep breath through his nostrils before he continued. “She always felt second-best, was always pushed to fit in by the one person that should have taught her to accept herself.”

“Which you then felt was your duty to make up for?”

“You're making it seem like that was a bad thing,” Erik retorted somewhat angered, and his companion shrugged.

“Well, clearly she's still not happy.”

“And that's my fault now?”

The look the other mutant gave him then was answer enough, and Erik found himself sighing, less in annoyance than resignation as he turned to look back at Raven. The sobs were subsiding now, but she still lay there unmoving, her golden eyes shining and reddened with tears.

“She left because of you, because you made her believe you'd give her what she had always longed for. And now you left her as well. I suppose it's hardly surprising that she feels miserable.”

“Then why doesn't she simply go back? Why does she need Frost to make contact with... the others?” Erik said somewhat stubbornly.

The woman sighed and stepped closer to the bed, looking down at Raven as if she wanted to brush the stray strand of red hair away that had fallen over her eye. Or maybe that had been Erik's idea, because he realized that his heart was clenching at the sight.

“She doesn't go back because she doesn't know if Charles would take her. And with you gone she thought there was a chance to reconcile the two groups. If Emma Frost made the first step as some kind of diplomatic strategy it would be less difficult to ease back into what things used to be. But if she went there now and was rejected...” She looked up at Erik, her green eyes warm but piercing with the knowledge that Erik understood. And yet...

“So you're saying it would be better for her to be reunited with someone that constantly patronizes her and thinks he knows the answer to everything while everyone else needs to be educated and manipulated?”

Erik didn't even know where it had come from so suddenly, but anger flared up in him with the words and he noticed he was clenching a hand to a fist at his side.

“You think Charles hasn't learned anything in the past,” she said, “that neither you nor anybody else had an impact on him as well?”

Erik chuckled bitterly, and the events of that day on the beach replayed in his mind, fueling his anger and sense of hurt further, each detail of what went wrong that day adding up to that feeling of betrayal, abandonment and hurt.

“Apparently not,” he said, voice low and strained. “If you know as much as you claim to then you also know that it was he who sent me away.”

Those last words spoken between them when Erik had knelt in the sand, holding Charles in his arms, resounded in his mind, so clearly as if he was just hearing them in this moment. He could almost taste the salt in the air, could see the gaze from teary blue eyes, and it made him angry, so angry and so hurt that he wanted to rip something apart, throw or punch something to find an outlet for that rage.

“If this is your agenda, if you want me to come crawling back to him and take Raven with me then you might very well just give up right now,” he spat, “because that's not going to happen. And if you're planning to show me how miserable he feels you might just leave that be as well because it serves him right.”

He had not meant to let his anger and the hurt it reflected show that freely. He felt weak and pathetic to even allow these emotions to stir in the first place. Somehow, though, he got the impression that he could neither hide anything from her nor surprise her with it which became clear in the gentle gaze she gave him when he stepped back to his side and laid a hand on his lower arm.

“Come, there's more for you to see, still,” she said, ignoring any of his previous protests and predictions. Erik could just throw another brief glance at Raven before the mist surrounded them one more.

The next place he found himself in was as easy to recognize as the first, if not more, and despite the fact that Erik had anticipated this as the next destination he felt his insides clench as soon as he actually stood in the first floor hallway of the mansion, just outside the kitchen. The long corridor was dimly lit by a few small lamps, but a much brighter, warmer glow came from inside the big room that had served as the second most popular gathering place after the sitting room. And same as often back then, faint voices could be heard from it as Erik and his companion stepped closer to the half-opened door.

“This'll be the first year I'm not going to church on Christmas Eve,” said Sean who was leaning against the kitchen counter, a cup of something to drink in his hand. Alex stood next to him, and two of the chairs around the table were occupied by Hank and Moira.

“Oh, you're free to go. Just don't expect me to come along,” the beast-like mutant said (what a fitting name that had been, indeed). His voice sounded almost growling, and Erik had to admit that the complete change in appearance and also attitude was something he had not had enough time getting used to – a pity, was the next thought that briefly flashed up in his conscious mind.

“Hey, I wasn't complaining,” Sean replied sheepishly. “Though... getting out of the house one way or another would be nice. Especially for the Professor.”

By the way everyone was silent for a moment after that it was easy to tell that the mood in the room wasn't as lighthearted as it could have been. Moira was the first to speak.

“I agree, but I fear he wouldn't agree to it even if we came up with something. He's still grieving.”

“Man, I wish he wouldn't beat himself up over all of this anymore. They left us. If you ask me, in my book that doesn't exactly make them worthy mooning over.”

“Well, the thing is, he blames himself for it, you know?” Moira replied, concern and sympathy in her tone and features.

“Do you really think that's the reason he still can't walk again?” Sean now asked, his brow furrowed, and again silence followed for a moment that was long enough to give Erik the opportunity to ponder what Sean could have meant.

Shortly after they had left, Erik and the others had heard of what had really happened to Charles that day – Erik still recalled the feeling of shock and dread when he had been informed that Charles was paralyzed from waist down. A few days after the events on the beach, Raven had called the mansion, just to make sure everyone was alright, though Erik had already suspected that she had had second thoughts. When she had learned from Alex, however, that Charles was in a small private clinic and that it looked like he may never walk again, any such plans had crumbled to dust, and Erik began to understand more clearly why.

“I don't know, but it is a possibility,” Hank replied. “There was no damage to his spinal cord except for internal hematoma and contusion of two vertebrae. Injuries like that shouldn't cause paralysis, least of all a lasting one.”

“Yes, but....” Alex spoke up but paused, looking onto the floor, his features tense with confusion. “Do you mean he's just pretending? I don't think I understand.”

“Oh no, he's not pretending. Charles is fully convinced that he can't walk. It's a mental blockade he just can't snap out of.”

“Are you sure? Maybe it'll just take some time for everything to heal completely,” Sean suggested, clearly as confused as Alex.

“Sean, it's been two months. Bruises don't take that long to heal. He would at least be able to feel his legs by now,” Moira replied and sighed as she looked back at Hank. “So it's really that, huh? But at least that means there's a chance he'll heal eventually.”

“Yes,” Hank replied. “Though I have no idea how long it's going to take. I've read about cases where people were paralyzed for years due to psychological trauma.”

“So what are you suggesting? That we should get him a shrink?” Alex asked, and Sean butted in with a different train of thought. “I still don't get it. How's that even possible?”

“The mind's a powerful thing,” Hank started explaining. “There are all sorts of psychosomatic illnesses and conditions. And in his case his powers could even amplify that effect, like... It's as if part of his mind has hypnotized itself into believing he can't walk, if that makes any sense.”

There was still confusion on the younger mutant's features, but he nodded slowly.

The confusion on Erik's face, however, must be clearly visible even though he tried to suppress it. Unable to deny that Hank's theory seemed more incredibly than anything he had heard, Erik wished he could ask them questions, could understand why none of them seemed to feel like the ground had been pulled from under their feet. As did he.

It was only then that Erik's companion spoke up again. “You see, Erik, you didn't do this. And neither did Moira.”

“I never said I did,” Erik said, his voice cracking slightly. Just as the words had left his lips, he realized that he was lying to himself.

That he had blamed himself for turning Charles into a cripple, just as Raven had blamed herself for leaving him when he had needed her most. But that didn't change the fact that had Charles sent him – had sent both of them away.

And knowing that – be the realization of his guilt induced by truth or tricks his own mind was playing on him – did not change another fact still; the fact that there were so many things Erik was still angry for, so many things that had been said, that had hurt on an entirely different level than the few punches he had thrown could have hurt Charles.

So many things were still unsaid, too, and those hurt worse.

Second-best, mistaken, not good enough.

The conversation within the kitchen had picked up again, and now it circled around options of what they could do on Christmas Eve to lighten Charles' mood and offer him some distraction. It was time to go.

Instead of traveling by mist and fog they simply left the kitchen, and the woman led Erik through the hallway and up the stairs where every step started feeling heavier and heavier, filling Erik with unease and impatience oddly combined.

“There's no use for me to protest, is there?” he asked and saw her shake her head.

“I'm afraid not. But this is the last scene I'm showing you for tonight.” Before he could dwell on the implication, he was once more being led through a closed door, and unlike earlier he felt a tingling sensation run down the back of his spine. As if he was intruding on something he shouldn't see. Or maybe it was the fact that, as soon as he saw the insides of Charles' room, the memories connected to it came sweeping back into his mind so vividly that it made it hard for Erik to breathe.

The place was dark except for a small lamp in a corner, and it took him a thorough glance around the room to spot the figure by the window and recognize what he first had thought to be one of the two armchairs that used to stand there as a wheelchair. Seeing Charles like that even though he had known it for a long time made his throat constrict. But what was even worse was the air of apathy that seemed to confirm Hank's theory, or at least make it seem less unlikely, and for a split-second Erik forgot that he wasn't really here, not in the same level of existence, and almost wanted to rush to Charles' side.

“What Moira said is true, you know?” his companion said, and Erik couldn't tell how much time had even passed since they had entered the room. “He blames himself. He thinks about the events on the beach every day, replays each detail and wonders what he could have said or done to make you stay.”

“But he sent me away!” Erik retorted in a strained whisper, realizing a second later that it wasn't necessary to keep his voice down.

“Yes, and he regrets it terribly. Have you never said or done anything in the heat of the moment that you later regretted?”

The question needed no answer. “It's not that simple,” he replied instead. “He was right when he said we don't want the same things. This would have stood between us even if everything had turned out differently that day. We would have drifted apart sooner or later anyway.”

“You think so?” she asked, and Erik knew he could give her no answer this time.

Instead, he let his gaze drift back to Charles whose face was half obscured by the shadows the faint light could not drown out. But then he turned his head, and Erik's heart almost stood still when he thought Charles was looking straight at him, straight into his eyes. Erik could not contain the gasp that came over his lips.

Another moment later, however, the illusion was gone as Charles wheeled himself toward Erik and almost through him, had Erik not stepped aside in the last second. And when he followed Charles' movement he could see that his destination had been the fireplace where, up on the mantle piece and almost out of Charles' reach there was a photo of himself with Raven. He took it down and held it in his hand, releasing a sigh. And another. One more that became heavy with held-back tears. His other hand gently ran over the protecting glass, tip of his index finger caressing the face captured on paper in black and white. An odd, conflicting mix of thoughts and feelings spread through Erik's mind, and he almost felt bad for the fact that he wished for a split-second Charles would miss him more than Raven.

Then, Charles put the photo back onto the mantelpiece, but he did not turn away yet. Instead, he picked up another item, so small that Erik had not even spotted it at first and only recognized it on second glance. It was a black king from a chess set, the very set they had played with the final night before Cuba. In the faint light Erik could hardly see it, but when Charles turned his head ever so slightly, looking at the floor while his hand held on to the chess piece, there were traces of silent tears on his cheeks, flowing freely and yet with the restraint of holding back any breath.

“Oh Erik,” he barely more than whispered, his voice cracking but no sob escaping him. Yet, he looked more broken than Erik would have ever thought possible.

“I think that's enough,” his companion said very softly, the touch of her hand on Erik's upper arm so gentle that he could not even feel any kind of anger towards her, or any embarrassment for the fact that he was quite obviously shaken by what he had just seen. He barely nodded his head toward her as he kept his eyes fixed on Charles before gray fog tore him away.

When he woke up again, Erik didn't even bother sitting up in his bed. He was sure his strange companion would have left already, same as she had done the previous night. And he also didn't feel the urge to change into his pajamas to attempt to go to sleep again. Instead, Erik just lay there for a very long time, staring at the ceiling in the near-darkness only illuminated by the faint glow coming in through a gap in the curtains. Never mind the fact that he still could not explain what or how it had happened nor who the woman was that had come to visit him the past two nights – if she was real – he could not deny that what he had seen kept him occupied long after it had passed. Kept him in a tight grip so that it was impossible to let the images go. Anger and indifference, two emotions he could handle, had tried to maintain whenever he did allow his thoughts to circle around Charles, faded underneath the pressure of a sorrow so great, that he could not hold back the moisture that formed in his own eyes then.

A part of him just wanted to give in, wanted to forget everything that had happened and return to what had once drawn them together. It felt like a million years ago now, too unreal and unlike him to ever be fully true. He had kidded himself then as he was now, ironically, with the illusion of simply letting go of it. Maybe that was the only constant in his life, after all, and he wondered how he could ever make sense of the mess that was raging through his mind and heart then.

If he understood the purpose of these dreams, visions – whatever they were – correctly they were supposed to convince him nevertheless to overcome all differences between him and Charles. To go back and live happily ever after. If only life was that simple, he thought bitterly as he finally got up from the bed. He would not fall asleep again anyway.

~ TBC ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on psychosomatic paralysis, and apparently it really exists. I read several entries in forums as well, one by a woman who said it took her more than a year to start 'snapping out of it', even after part of her conscious mind had realized there was no physical reason for her not feeling her body (she had been paralysed from neck down). It is said that severe psychological trauma combined with a psysical accident can, indeed, trigger this phenomenon. Fascinating huh? What the human mind is capable of... but quite scary too. Btw, that woman had been left by her boyfriend and then stumbled down a few stairs.
> 
> Oh, and just in case you're wondering why Moira is there. Well, in the movie it looked like spring when Charles finally sent her away - even if that's a bit of a plot hole because what the hell did she tell the CIA/did she not contact them for half a year? And how DID they even get back from that beach? ^^ Seriously, I love this movie, but the plot holes in it drive me nuts. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter. Next one up tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please also go back to the last chapter and check the part after Hank explains his theory. I made a few additions there after a very constructive discussion with "speak_me_fair" on LJ. There was a bit of a lack of reaction from Erik, and I made according changes.

**December 23nd 1962**

The day had been cold but pleasant. There was still snow covering the rooftops and sidewalks of the city, but traffic had resumed and was almost back to its previous level of activity. Just rail-bound transport was still mainly on hold, except for a few trains for which it had been impossible to get a ticket.

Erik wanted to get out of the city as quickly as possible to avoid another nightly visit, though he still wasn't sure whether they had even been real. He had learned things he couldn't possibly know, the previous night, though there was the possibility he had simply imagined them. The first scenario of Raven was one easy to predict; if he was perfectly honest with himself he had thought about the fact that leaving her was not entirely fair a couple of times. The second however, especially the theory on Charles' paralysis, was something he could not quite explain being a mere product of his imagination. But then again, when he thought about it, he may have heard or read something about psychosomatic illnesses here and there, and his subconscious combined the facts he knew to a new one. Maybe to lift the burden of guilt he had carried ever since he had learned what the bullet had done to Charles. It would be easy to find out whether the nightly vision had reflected the truth, 'one phone call' easy, though that option was the farthest from his mind right now.

What he could not rationalize was the circumstance that he found himself in more turmoil than he had been the entire time since the events on Cuba – a seed of doubt had been planted, by whatever source, and grew within him until it filled out every corner of his consciousness. He had thought he could just go back to the way things had been before he had met Charles, though of course not in every regard, but at least being alone and not depending on anyone had been one thing he had thought he could achieve. But now…

There was no determination in him any longer, that coldness and strength he had fed off turning into heavy emptiness. Like a wound, as cliché as the comparison seemed in his mind, that was being torn open again when one had already thought it having healed. This wound, as it seemed, would take a lot longer to seal over.

That, however, still didn't mean he should give in, should follow something that might very well be just a delusion created by a less than stable mind. So, since he could not get a train ticket for that day, Erik had booked one for the next. His attempt to find a different hotel room, however, had unfortunately been thwarted by the fact that many travelers seemed to be stuck in Budapest, and when the snowfalls turned heavy again during the afternoon, Erik had had no choice but to return to the small hotel he was residing at, order a thermos jug of coffee and desperately hoping to keep himself awake until morning.

It had worked out until quite late that night, with the help of a book he had bought earlier that day – ironically Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, as that had been the only English book the tiny shop had had on display, but as he reached the last few of the three hundred-something pages, his eyes grew heavier and heavier, and his elbow almost slipped from the table surface twice as he propped his head on his hand.

"Ah, that's a lovely book." The familiar but dreaded voice startled Erik from his sleepiness, and he realized that he must have closed his eyes for a few moments after all. He inwardly cursed himself as he pressed his eyes shut, took a deep breath and then turned to look at the figure standing in the middle of his hotel room.

He should not be all too surprised – after all, her appearance had changed the previous night already – but he felt his eyes growing wide nevertheless as he saw the strange attire she had chosen for their latest encounter: her hair was black and sleek, straight bangs and sides a sharp frame around her face. Her clothing, no dress this time but a tight-fitting top over equally tight trousers, was as black as her hair, but what was most striking were her eyes, a dark, cold grey shade this time.

"A bit cliché, don't you think?" he asked with feigned nonchalance and mockery as he closed the book on the table, but in his mind he came to seriously doubt his sanity.

His odd companion shrugged and smirked ever so faintly, taking a step closer toward him. "Maybe. But I like dressing to match the occasion. And since you're still fully dressed as well, we can go right away, although… technically it wouldn't make any difference since nobody but I can see you."

A dark future then, he thought, ignoring her second comment. He briefly thought of something to say that would make her leave him alone, and he even considered trying to pinch himself again so he'd wake up if this really was a dream, but neither option seemed very promising. And so, barely letting out another faint sigh, he got up from his chair.

"Alright then. Show me how no one's mourning my death, and the tombstone on my grave," he said challengingly. The woman merely raised an eyebrow and lifted her hand for him to take it.

The feeling of mist engulfing them was awfully familiar by now; the sight that revealed itself before them when it lifted, however, was nothing but completely unknown to him. Unlike the previous times when he had found himself inside of a building, or at least on the open space in front of the quiet farm, Erik nearly jumped when a car drove past him with enormous speed. As loud as the sound of the vehicle had been were the busy streets around him, tall skyscrapers with glass and marble facades, thousands of colorful neon lights unlike anything he had seen even in New York City – which Erik suspected this place was. The street sign to his right read 43rd Street, and a copy of a New York Times was hurtled over the ground by an icy breeze. Erik picked it up before the wind could have carried it further away and read the date: December 22nd 2011.

"So this is what the future looks like?" he asked, looking around once more to take in the details. Of course, he had known that scientific and technological progress was happening quickly, but many of the things he saw – gigantic video screens in full color, cars so futuristic that they could have sprung from a Sci-Fi novel and people with the strangest clothes – made him almost certain that it was impossible for his subconscious to have invented them.

"It does. But we're not here for you to enjoy the scenery," his companion said and nodded toward the end of the block. "Come, there's something happening right over there behind that corner that you need to see."

She led him past a gift and souvenir shop, and a small theater to the driveway of a parking garage. The sounds of the traffic and the howling wind around were so loud that they managed to drown out what only registered with him then as faint cries and calls, and as they stepped closer inside the garage he could clearly identify them as the pained and desperate sounds of a person that was being attacked. There was no use running – he could not help anyway even if he had wanted to – but nevertheless his steps carried him quickly over the wet asphalt until, turning around a corner and glimpsing into the half-empty garage, he could see three figures, one rather small and two a lot larger, adolescent thugs that were beating up a younger boy. Human or not, real or not even having been born in Erik's own time, the desperate pleas for the older boys to stop and for somebody to help him tore at Erik's heart as well as it made anger stir in him.

"You filthy mutant freak!" one of the two teenagers grunted as he sent a hard punch straight into the boy's face. Blood spilled from his lip and nose and soaked the light beige winter jacket he was wearing. Erik's anger rose, mixed with disgust at the display and a deep bitterness as he turned to look to his companion.

"That's an excellent example of why I should agree to Charles' ways, you're showing me there," he said sarcastically, feeling vindicated in his opinions.

The black-haired woman only smiled sadly and nodded towards the exit.

Within a few seconds, two policemen came rushing into the garage, one had his gun drawn and the other a club in hands.

"Freeze!" one of them shouted, and the two teenagers immediately stepped away from the child, arms held up high.

"He attacked us. He's a mutant," one of the boys called while the police officer with the club rushed to the injured boy's side. The kid was now lying flat on his back, unmoving, with so much blood on his face and clothes that he was unrecognizable.

"We're allowed to defend ourselves," said the other teenager, fear sounding in his voice as the officer stepped closer but lowered his gun.

"Damn, he's dead," said the first and, as if handling road kill, kicked the boy with the tip of his boot, shaking his head as he concluded that he must, indeed, be dead.

"He attacked you, you're saying?"

"Yes, he shot some weird… things… I dunno…"

"Energy blasts!" said the second teenager, as if he had just come up with that as an explanation.

"He's not chipped," said the first police officer as he had squatted down next to the body to take out an odd electronic device which he hovered above the boy's head and torso.

"Alright, you'll have to come to the station with us anyway to give us your statement. Don't worry, just a formality," the second officer said and finally put the gun back into the holster.

Erik looked at his companion, shock and rage coursing through his veins. "Mutants can just be beaten down like stray dogs in the streets without any repercussions?"

She shrugged faintly and let out a sigh. "Yes. Ever since the legislation declared that it was legal to defend oneself by all means against mutants – a law which has too many loopholes to be just, but that's hardly surprising."

"And… what did he say about… a chip?"

"Oh, mutants must register with the government and get a chip for easier identification. A bit like the Yellow Star., which is why the last remaining mutants call this time the Mutant Holocaust. Just as you predicted, Erik."

He had to swallow hard, fighting with the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach as he thought about all the implications her words had offered. "Last remaining mutants?" he asked, almost not daring to.

"Well, many got killed in the various battles humans fought against them. Others were 'cured' a few years ago when a serum was discovered that could revert the effects of genetic mutation. Many are in hiding. And others will never be born because parents can now test their genes for mutant potential. In fact, there is a bill that's about to pass that will make it mandatory for any couple to get tested before they reproduce."

"How… did it come this far?" Erik asked, his voice cracking. It was true that he had predicted a scenario like this, or at least a tendency towards it, but he had also been sure he would have found ways to prevent it from actually coming to pass, had never allowed himself to actually picture how horribly bad it could get.

"I'll explain it to you at our next stop. Come," said his companion while the police officers had called the authorities and were now taking the boys' names.

Just once, Erik let his gaze drift back to the dead boy on the floor and wondered whose child he was before he took his companion's hand and disappeared in a cloud of mist.

The next site was as easy to recognize as it would have ever been, but at the same time the obvious changes it had suffered were even harsher than those Erik had seen in the streets of Manhattan. Where once stood a flawless, beautiful manor house with sand colored stone walls and white window frames was now nothing more than a charred skeleton of previous splendor. Large chunks of the third floor were missing entirely, so it wasn't hard to guess that bombs must have been dropped onto it, and what once was a simple but lush garden was now covered in weeds and gnarled trees.

"What happened?" Erik barely gasped, his heart straining with a deepest sense of regret and sorrow as he saw the ruins of Charles' mansion.

Instead of replying, his companion let her gaze drift to the left, nodding in the direction of what looked like a small memorial park, tombstones that had somehow survived the bombing of the estate. Erik's heart suddenly gave a painful thud, and he was not sure if he wanted to run or walk as slowly as possible. He needed to know, yet he didn't want to, but when his gaze finally fell on the largest of the headstones it was too late anyway.

  
_Charles Francis Xavier  
1930 – 2006_   


"It wasn't a natural cause." Her voice was soft, gentle even as she stood close behind him, though Erik did not turn to look at her, completely paralyzed by the sight before him.

"Another mutant killed him. One with powers too great for anyone to be a match to her."

"Is that why the humans attacked the mansion?"

"No," she replied faintly. "That happened three years later."

"And… and the others?" Erik's voice cracked, and he realized only then that tears had started spilling into his eyes as he read the name over and over and over again, unable to tear his gaze from it.

She touched his arm then, and with her other she pointed to the headstones next to Charles' on both sides. Finally, Erik had to draw his gaze away to read them. Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Alex Summers, Ororo Munroe.

"Those are just the ones that died before the final battle. Hank and Sean were imprisoned and executed, as were many others, those not fortunate enough to die in the bombings."

"And Raven?"

"Nobody knows."

Erik felt numb, completely helpless and weak, and for a few torturing slow seconds he almost let it overwhelm him, almost wanted to sink to his knees and give in to the need to cry for those that were dead – but only in another reality. From that thought sprang anger again, and that he could handle, could find strength in as he turned to face her.

"How do I know all you're showing me is even true? You're saying all this is the result of… of me leaving and not working with Charles anymore? How do I know it won't come to pass anyway? Tell me one good reason to trust and believe you at all!"

"Maybe you should simply listen to yourself," she said cryptically, and before Erik could even ponder the words any further, she had reached for his arm and they disappeared from where they stood.

For the first time that night, she immediately brought them inside a building, run-down and dirty as it was. An unpleasant stench of mold and excrement lay in the air, a cold draft that wheezed through the narrow and dark corridor. It looked like nobody had lived here for many years.

“Where are we?” Erik asked, finding no sign of anything of interest he may see.

“Fairfield Inn, Richmond, Virginia,” she replied.

Erik could not contain his surprise, befuddlement even, same as the memories that immediately stirred when he heard the name. His gaze roamed across the walls and, squinting, he could make out the faded pattern of the wallpaper, now a grimy mixture of browns and grays, but fifty years ago a warm golden-red color with a vintage Victorian pattern. One of the wall lights hung from its hinges, the shade and light bulb gone, but Erik could recognize that as well. Same as the door he was now looking at with the room number 207.

“Why here?” Erik thought, his confusion only rising as he still had no idea why she should show him the ruins of what once was the hotel he and Charles had spent a night in on their recruiting trip. Spent the night and, other than the previous, shared the same room. And bed.

“Don't you want to go inside?”

He was inclined to say no but knew better. Instead, he looked back at the door, which barely seemed to hold in its hinges, the lock and handle ripped out so that it was being held open by what looked like a piece of rock as door stopper.

Before he could contemplate the oddity of walking through closed – or in this case ajar – doors like thin air, the door was opened, and Erik found himself looking at an old man. Hair gray and shoulders slumped, he was dressed in clothes almost as ragged as the place itself looked: a pair of scraggy gray slacks, a shirt that once could have been white but now had a color difficult to identify in the semi-darkness, and a pullover that, with its many moth holes, could barely keep the bearer warm enough in such cold. The man walked badly, having to lean heavily against the door frame before he bent down to put what Erik then recognized as a plate with crumbs and leftovers onto the floor. What purpose that act precisely had, Erik could only guess: to keep the rats out of the room.

When the man straightened up again and reached for his lower back with one slightly trembling hand, Erik had a moment's time to look at the face more closely, wondering who that pitiful old man was. He was just about to ask his companion when he caught a closer glimpse of the man's eyes, and Erik felt all air being pressed out of his lungs, his heart hammering in his chest with shock.

“Go on in,” his companion said – he had almost forgotten she was even here – as Erik watched his older self turn and walk back into the room, and the two spectators slipped in before the door slowly fell shut again. He could not say that he had wanted to go; a part of him wanted to run more than ever before, but that would have been as useless an attempt as anything else.

The room looked nothing like it had when he and Charles had spent the night in it; the large four-poster bed was gone, replaced by nothing more than a thin mattress on the floor with an equally thin blanket on top. The fine wardrobe and the sideboard were gone as well, just a small chair and a camping table stood by the window where previously two white armchairs had stood. And on top of the table was a chess board, all set up for a game that, by the looks of it, had already begun.

The old Erik sat back down on the chair which creaked even though the man was thinner than his younger version that stood in the middle of the room.

“My turn?” The old Erik asked and briefly chuckled to himself as he let his gaze wander over the chess pieces. “Hm, let me try a more conventional strategy,” he said, his voice raspy and low with age. “I think... ah yes, this may do,” he mumbled and moved a bishop to threaten the white player's knight. “Take your time,” he added with another chuckle and leaned back, one elbow leaning on the window sill and his fingers resting against his chin and jaw. He watched the board for several moments, unmoving and silent before he suddenly leaned forward and crooked his head. “Are you sure you want to make that move?” he asked, a strange, joyless humor in his voice as he brought his hand to the board and set the white knight out of danger, but his own bishop straight in the line of the black one.

“Who the hell is he talking to?” Erik asked, his heart beating rapidly with the tension the scene caused in him. He refused to acknowledge the suspicion that had risen in him.

His companion did not reply, but the older Erik spoke up again. “I thought you'd sacrifice your pawn first. Or are you just trying to lure me into a trap, Charles?”

He had known it, had anticipated to be faced with that revelation, but nothing could have accounted for the feeling of dread that made his throat constrict as it had become reality.

“Oh, I almost forgot something,” the old Erik said with a faint smile on his lips as he got up from his seat. He was limping slightly as he walked to a corner of the room where a large plastic box, beside an old suitcase, was the only item covering the torn carpet floor. He opened the box, again having difficulties straightening up after, and brought forth what looked like a vegetable can and a can opener.

“Olives,” he said as he sat back down. “I was lucky enough to find them. It's been a while since I've had anything so exquisite.” Another faint chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. His fingers had difficulties wrapping the rusty can opener around the rim, and it took him an obvious effort to screw it open inch by inch until he finally opened the lid and licked the brine from his thumb.

“Green ones. You always liked them best, didn't you?” he asked as he picked one of the pickled fruits out of the can and gingerly put it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, though he did not eat with great relish. When he swallowed he started coughing, a rough, raw cough, deep in his lungs, that hardly seemed to cease and was another sign of the toll this life had taken on the old man.

“Now... where were we?” he said, swallowing and forcing down the next cough that could already be heard scratching in the back of his throat. “Ah yes, what to do with my bishop?”

It was the first time Erik managed to turn away from the terrible spectacle and look at his companion again. “I wouldn't do that!” he started with vehemence, wanted to assure himself that this wasn't real, that it would never come this far. “I wouldn't sit here in the ruin of an old hotel, talking to myself like a – “

“Like a crazy old man?” she interrupted him, both expression and tone completely void of mischief. “Erik, you're eighty-three years old, and you have lost everything you've ever held dear. You are a crazy old man.”

He let his gaze drift back to the table and the can with the opener, and he felt his brow twitch in confusion as another fact started to sink in. “Why don't I have my powers anymore?”

“The cure, remember? It wasn't only given to mutants on their free will. Though, ironically, it was Hank that injected you in the last battle you ever fought against Charles' mutants.”

So he had really lost everything. Charles, Raven, his powers, health and sanity. Pity for his older self, mingled with fear, kept making it difficult for him to breathe, even if it wasn't for the horrible smell in the entire building. He had been through worse as a child and teenager, but he had always had a purpose, something to continue living and fighting for. This shell of a man, however, had nothing. Not even the delusion of talking to a long lost friend, an ally... lover, seemed to give him a glimpse of happiness.

The old Erik sighed, and it almost turned into another cough when he leaned forward and looked over the board to the empty spot where his opponent would be. “You're going to win this one again. I somehow can't seem to beat you. I never could, you know?” A sudden sound, barely more than a gasp but a faint sob deep down, escaped him, and he lowered his gaze, breathing shallow and wheezy through his nostrils. “I don't even know why I tried. Why I could never let you win. You were right, Charles. You were right in the end.”

“Stop it already!” The shout had come out before Erik even knew he was going to speak. Hands balled to fists, he had stepped closer, and his heart was pumping violently, jumping up and down in his chest with anger and regret and shame. “Stop it, you old fool! He wasn't right!”

“It's all my fault,” the old Erik whispered, unimpressed by the harsh words of his younger self, words he could not hear. “If I had known... I shouldn't have... I... We should have worked together, Charles. My old friend. It would've never come to this. We could have had everything. We could have had... peace.”

He could not listen to this any longer, could not watch this senile and sentimental old fool babble on about his past mistakes without making any sense.

“Explain to me how my leaving led to this!” he ordered, his tone enraged as he stared at the black-haired woman. “How did it come to this?”

“Does it matter?” she just replied.

“Of course it matters!” he shot back, his breath coming quickly over his lips now. “I need to know what happened. I need to know what exactly I did wrong, and when. You need to tell me!” He wanted to reach for her, shake her shoulders and threaten her to tell him everything she knew, but her shape just flickered and vanished from the spot she stood, leaving him almost stumbling forward as he grabbed at thin air.

“Someone else is coming,” he could hear her voice behind him and turned on the spot to first look at her and then the door. And there, indeed, still faintly in the distance, he could hear footsteps approaching.

 _Get up, old man, damn it!_ He thought as his gaze briefly drifted back to his old self, but the thin figure sat unmoving with his shoulders slumped, completely apathetic.

The steps grew closer, louder, not even attempting to be dimmed and hidden, and a moment closer the door was being pushed open, creaking loudly as it swayed back and forth in its hinges.

“Hello Erik, I finally found you.”

While the old man had only slowly turned to look at the figure standing in the door, the younger had whirled around and stared at the newcomer in disbelief. Her hair was black now, her eyes a cool gray, but there was something about the expression on her face, the sound of her voice, and the way she stood at the door with her hands on her hips and her chin lifted defiantly, that reminded him too much of her younger version to be missed.

“Ah, Raven,” the old Erik said, his voice barely more than a gasp as he smiled faintly, and his eyes turned moist. “My beautiful.”

She still was, though much more mature and with fine lines on her face that showed time had not passed without effect for her either – that fact alone had confirmed Erik's suspicion that she, too, must have lost her powers.

She snorted faintly. “Funny, you would say that, considering the last you’d ever spoken to me.” Icy bitterness lay in her tone as she took two steps closer.

The old Erik lowered his gaze, sadness and regret visible on his features, as his eyes began to fill with more moisture. “So it is revenge,” he stated more than asked.

“You taught me well,” she replied, still full of bitter contempt. “Revenge is all I've got left after you took everything from me and abandoned me. Again.”

The old man merely nodded, and when he looked up there lay an odd almost serene smile on his lips. “I will not insult you by saying I only meant to protect you.”

“That would be useless. I know you better than that.”

“Then you should also know that I've come here to die,” he replied evenly.

“What? You're not going to ask me to spare you just because you're going to bite the dust soon anyway, are you?” She took yet another step closer, and another, until she stood right in front of him, her hand on a small leather sheath attached to the belt of her jeans.

“No, I'm saying you'll be doing me a favor.”

No.

Erik felt his throat go dry, his chest filled with a vast, heavy emptiness.

“No,” he managed to blurt out and tore his gaze from the two people in front of him. “Take me away from here. Take me away from here now!!”

“I'm sorry, but I think you need to see that,” his companion replied regretfully.

“I trusted you, you know that?” Raven spoke on, and no matter how cold and bitter her voice had been just now, there was an almost affectionate ring to it as she carefully pushed the chess set to the outer edge of the table and leaned against it.

“I know.”

“I would have given you everything, Erik. Hell, I did. Even after you left me with Frost and didn't show up for years. And I followed you blindly, you and your hate and thirst for vengeance.”

“I know. And I hope you'll find it in you...” He stopped himself and let out another sigh, drawing his eyes from her and back to the chess board. “No. I hope you don't forgive me. Or you'll regret what you're about to do. Terribly so.”

“Is that a threat?” she asked.

“No. These are the words of an old fool that turned a little wiser, much too late.”

Raven snorted and shifted her weight.

“Alright, she's going to kill him. Why do I need to see it?” Erik asked, panic rising in his chest and making it nearly impossible to breathe.

His companion, however, only shook her head softly as she looked up at him. “No Erik, she's going to kill you. And you need to see this so that you don't forget it.”

“I won't,” he said, promised, ready to beg. He had seen many people die in his life, often at his own hands, but this... It frightened him more than anything he could remember, terrified him to the core so that he could not help the desperate tears fill his eyes. “Just take me back!”

“I do forgive you,” Raven said then, and Erik automatically looked at her, hoping against hope that she had changed her mind. That he would not witness his own murder. But then the knife flashed up in the dim light of the only lamp, and with a silent gasp the old Erik sank against her arms as she had rammed the blade into his chest.

“No!!”

The old man's eyes grew glassy, pupils constricting within the pale irises, and a final breath came over his lips as all life faded from him.

“NOOOOOOO!!!”

Erik screamed so loudly, every fiber in him lit on fire with horror, dizzy from the lack of air in his lungs, hoarse from the desperate outcry and blind with moisture in his eyes.

When the call ended and hitched in his throat, he suddenly found himself swaying on the spot, nearly losing his balance. He was back in his own hotel room, back in the here and now. In reality. And fully awake this time.

He whirled around, looking for the stranger that had submitted him to all of this, but he saw nobody in the room except his own reflection in the mirror on the adjacent wall.

“Hello?” he called out softly, his voice still hoarse and raspy, and he had to swallow hard to push away the lump in his throat and to calm the gut-wrenching pain of his beating heart. There was no reply, of course. She was gone. Erik could not even feel relieved. He felt... beaten, shaken, and beyond words to describe what was still making his insides twist as if an iron claw had wrapped around them and was tearing them out.

A hand reached up to brush over his face, wipe away the tears on his cheeks and in his eyes, and he breathed in, once, twice, three times to slowly calm himself. It eventually began to work, and he took a first, deep and halfway liberating breath.

Then his gaze drifted back to the mirror, to himself in it, eyes rimmed red, hair disheveled, face pale. But young and healthy and sane. He stepped closer and looked into his own eyes, their shade gray-green in this light, and though there were fewer wrinkles around them, lashes and brows dark and not nearly white, they were the same eyes of the man whose life he had seen fade out. The man who he'd become one day.

Unless... he listened to himself.

_We could have had peace._

Peace. Maybe it wasn't yet too late for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Westchester, New York, December 24th**

The tree was one of the most beautiful ones Charles had seen since his childhood. Tall, with the golden angel on top almost reaching the ceiling of the sitting room; fairy lights from bottom to top and big, shiny orbs in red and gold. The others had really outdone themselves decorating the living room as beautifully as possible, and Charles found himself smiling despite the fact that the warmth and happiness such a day should cause hardly filled his chest as much as a sense of melancholy that he was unable to shake off. Melancholy was, in fact, rather mildly put, though Charles tried to shove the feeling into the back of his mind.

It was not fair to the others, to Moira, Hank, Alex and Sean who had been bending over backwards to make this year's holiday season as enjoyable for him as possible; he was not unaware of their constant concerned looks, the hushed conversations that always ended abruptly when he entered a room. Charles knew they worried about him, and it made him both grateful and, ironically, a little angry, though the anger was probably addressed more at himself than any of them. He knew all too well what it was like to care and worry about people close to oneself, had caught glimpses into their minds and the worries they had for him.

"Some eggnog?" Sean asked with a smile on his lips as he leaned down to hand Charles a mug filled with the creamy-sweet drink.

"Yes, please. Thank you," Charles replied and took a small sip. "Oh, are you sure that's just eggnog? It tastes rather like you've added some rum," he said, chuckling faintly and mentally patted his own shoulder for the fact that he managed to uphold a lighthearted attitude at least for a little while. He owed this to them. And to himself.

Sean grinned sheepishly. "Um well. It's possible we spiked it a little," he said and exchanged a glance with Alex who grinned in return and then shrugged at Charles apologetically. Moira gave them both a slightly stern look, and – even without reading her thoughts – Charles guessed she may be a little worried about giving him too much alcohol to drink.

That thought made whatever happiness Charles may have achieved fade and be replaced by a sense of shame and inability.

Aside from their general concerns, Charles had also picked up on the theory that they all seemed so set on. A theory that, when diving briefly into Hank's mind after having been asked whether he was sure he felt nothing in his feet, had no less than insulted and angered him, though he had been too shocked to even show any reaction to it. However, also a theory that had planted a seed of doubt in him, had kept him up at night with the attempt to force himself to move, to examine his own mind, re-evaluate all facts and circumstances and medical evaluations. And when he finally came to the conclusion that what they were considering may very well be true, he had felt so ashamed and embarrassed that he had not been able to see the prospect of being able to walk again and instead wished it was an ultimate injury.

At least, that he could deal with, could gradually get used to being in a chair the whole time – and he had become quite apt with handling it now. Imagining that this was all just some psychological trauma, which implied – despite his better knowledge of human psychology – that he had somehow lost his mind, felt like nothing he could picture dealing with. Because it felt like he was being stupid, made him feel flawed and ashamed and even angrier with himself than he already was for so many reasons; reasons other than just the physical effect of the events on the beach. A part of him knew he should not feel that way, also knew that the others most likely didn't regard him as being responsible for his own misery, but that did not change the fact that those thoughts and feelings were there, impossible to get rid of and to even begin the healing process that would solve this mystery eventually.

"Stop staring at that present," Moira said to Sean and tore Charles from his reverie. Despite the slightly admonishing tone of voice, her features were friendly as she looked at Sean with a crooked smirk.

"You know," the boy said, "in some countries they open their presents on Christmas Eve."

"Yes, but we're not in 'some countries'. How old are you, buddy? Ten?" Alex teased and Hank shot both of them a look as if he meant to say he'd slap their fingers if they were to reach for any of the colorfully wrapped boxes beneath the tree.

Today was going to be a good day, Charles had to remind himself, focusing on the expectation of everyone opening their presents, smiling and thanking each other and filling the house with positive energy. At least, he succeeded to hold on to such thoughts for a few moments, before his mind drifted back to everything else he wished he didn't constantly have to think about, most of all to those that weren't here with them today.

For a second, he thought this very train of thought must have caused a cruel illusion in his mind, the illusion of feeling a presence he hadn't felt for over two months now, though even before that he had not so much as allowed himself to sometimes reach out for the contours of that mind, never fully diving in, because he had promised he wouldn't. But he knew the feel of it, the shape and edges of that mind, like recognizing a house from the outside without ever walking in.

Before he could ponder why his mind was playing yet another cruel trick on him, Hank jumped up as the sound of the front door opening could be heard, and Sean as well as Alex were ready, too, should an intruder have found his way into the mansion. But then, a shape appeared in the doorway, reluctantly peeking around the corner, golden eyes wide and reflecting uncertainty as well as the faint smile on her blue lips. But an enormous sense of longing and emotion that Charles was sure not even somebody without telepathic abilities could miss.

"Raven," he found himself breathe out, his voice cracking in the back of his throat as his nose started prickling and his eyes burning, and he was only very vaguely aware of the surprised gasp from Moira and the expletive from Alex.

"I… hi," she said, her own eyes filling with tears though the smile on her features was spreading. She took one reluctant step into the room, faltered for a moment and then, finally, rushed the remaining distance and knelt down at Charles' feet, her arms around his knees. "I missed you! I missed you so much," she said, her own voice weak with tears, but the joy of seeing him again was limited by still persistent uncertainty in her eyes as she looked up at him. At him, who was staring disbelievingly down at her beautiful face, unable to find the right words or even any at all, to begin with.

"Oh God, Charles, say something," she nearly begged. "I'm so sorry. I should've never left. When I learned what happened to you…" She swallowed, lowering her gaze.

For the first time, Charles found himself capable of speaking, and it was that sense of shame and frustration that made his words sound more bitter than he had intended. "Is that why you came back?"

Shock was visible in her eyes and her lips parted. "No. No, no, gosh, Charles, no. When I heard what happened I felt horrible. If at all, it was all the more reason why I didn't dare coming back. I didn't know whether you'd hate me… I still don't know… Gosh, Charles, I was so stupid and so stubborn."

"I don't hate you," he said, and a faint smile lay on his lips despite the tears making his voice thick and heavy. "I never could, Raven. You're my oldest friend. You're my sister, and I love you. I always just wanted what was best for you. I never meant to make you feel like you weren't good enough."

"I know. I know!" she almost laughed and shook her head. "I was being a brat!"

"And I a patronizing arse," he chuckled out through the tears that now spilled from his eyes. Raven let out another laugh and leaned further up to wrap her arms around his shoulders, hug him as tightly as they hadn't done for many years – which he realized now.

When he blinked away the tears and let his gaze briefly flicker over the other four people in the room, he found them all torn between trying not to stare and watching in touched amazement, and he could not hold it against them in the slightest. Though he could have let the embrace last forever, he did draw away from it and spread an arm in an inviting gesture, beckoning the others to come near.

"I suppose we'll have to set the table for one more tomorrow," he said, his heart giving a joyful jump in his chest as he looked back at Raven. "You are staying, aren't you?"

"If you'll have me?"

"Oh God, yes!" Charles exclaimed with another teary laugh as the others drew nearer. Hank was the first to place his large paw on Raven's shoulder as she got up and pull her into a hug as well, and she laughed some more as she let Alex embrace her while Sean asked: "So, you're staying for good then? Not only over Christmas?"

"Yes," she beamed, and her joy was so contagious that Charles felt it swell inside his chest, chasing off all the dire thoughts and emptiness.

"What made you change your mind?" Moira asked now, equally happy, and maybe even a little more for the fact that she wasn't the only woman among four men any longer.

The smile on Raven's lips faded somewhat then, but the joy did not vanish, was only slightly camouflaged by a hint of abashment. "Well… um… Someone told me to… listen to myself," she said vaguely, and her gaze drifted to the doorway of the living room.

Charles' gaze followed hers, confused and curious and, as proven to himself with such a sense of shock that it pressed all air out of his lungs a second later, completely clueless. Clueless because he would never, not even after the unexpected reunion with Raven, ever have dreamed to see the face again that he was now looking at; the face that became clearer for him to recognize when the helmet that had obscured half of it was lifted and Erik took one more step into the room.

And his mind, beautiful and unique like Raven's, was back in Charles' consciousness, his presence rushing into him as that night on the water when he had first felt the depths and dark edges of the other man's mind, calling him and entrancing him like nothing else before ever had, and nothing ever could. As if a part of him that he had believed to have lost forever came back to life.

~*~

Erik had expected to feel and experience a multitude of things during the long hours he had waited for this moment; when he had first made up his mind in the middle of the night in Budapest to pack up his things and check out to make his way to the airport and catch the first flight to America – for a reason he learned about only much later, he had not been able to make a connecting call to Emma Frost's house to contact Raven. When he had waited in Frankfurt, Germany of all places, for a connecting flight to New York and tried again, in vain, to reach Raven, because it would have been so much easier for him to simply ask Azazel to teleport them. Though he first had to find out whether Raven even wanted to come with him. And during the eight-hour flight that finally landed at JFK at 6 pm local time – before he finally had reached Raven, finding out the phone line had been disconnected due to a storm - he had had more than enough occasion to picture this moment. To brace himself for the things he might be feeling, things he would need to say... things that could be said back at him to ruin whatever hope had sparked and grown in him during the past twenty-two hours.

What he had not been prepared for, what he simply had not been able to anticipate, was the fact that he found himself unable to speak at all, unable to remember any of the countless things he had prepared in mind carefully. And he even found himself unable to grasp a specific emotion, other than that he suddenly felt very... young. As little sense as that made even to him.

He didn't know how much time passed then; it could have been just two, three seconds or maybe an entire minute, and he was even less sure whether he heard his name spoken out loud or only in his head or even in his imagination, but it didn't matter. It was that, as well as the look on Charles features, his deep blue eyes shining with tears and lips gently parted in wonder, that finally made Erik move. Hasty steps took him towards Charles, though he stopped at arm's-length from the other man. What words could ever cover everything that he was feeling and thinking in that moment?

“Please, somebody pinch me, or I might think I'm hallucinating,” Charles got out, his voice trembling with tears, and there was an odd, strained chuckle coming from one of the boys, and a faint sob from Moira, as far as Erik could tell. He did not look at any of them.

“Alright, maybe we.... hey do you guys have any dinner leftovers in the kitchen? I'm a little hungry,” Raven spoke and led the others out of the living room who all followed without protest. Erik was quite thankful for that, because the moment the steps of the last person faded into the distance on the hallway floor he felt tears spill into his eyes and a breathless gasp leaving his lips. He had also not anticipated just how much he'd missed Charles. Physically, desperately, and wonderfully.

“You convinced Raven to come back?” Charles' voice still trembled slightly, but there was something serene and gratuitous in it as well as he looked up at Erik who still stood at a distance.

“No. I convinced her to simply do what she'd been wanting to all along,” he replied, realizing once again how much it applied to him as well.

“And you...?” Reluctance to believe just yet clearly visible on his features, but hope all the same.

“I was a fool,” Erik finally blurted out, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I was a fool to think I could find purpose in leaving everything good I've ever had. I was such a fool, Charles. About everything.”

Another faint sound left Charles' lips, and his brow furrowed with the pained frown that spread over his entire features. He reached for the wheels of his chair to cross the last remaining distance, but Erik was faster, and a split-second later he was kneeling at the side of the wheelchair, one hand at the back of Charles' neck as he stretched up to make up for the distance their position caused.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Erik,” Charles said in barely more than a tear-strained whisper, but Erik immediately shook his head, his other hand reaching for Charles' knee, wandering up to his hand to take it and grasp it as tightly as he could without causing the other man any pain.

“No, I'm sorry, Charles. I should have listened to you. I should have fought for you. Not against you. But...” There were so many things he wanted to say, wanted to explain and in return understand himself, but he did not know where to start, did not know what aspect to focus on first until he realized that none of this even mattered. Those were details, and there would be much time talking about each and every one of them.

“You were wrong in one aspect, Charles. We do want the same things. I just had to find out what I wanted most.” When the words had left his lips, it became more clear to Erik, more clear still than it could have during all those long hours when the moment of reconciliation was but another far-away dream. When he felt the soft hair in the back of Charles' neck under his fingertips, the goosebumps on his skin beneath that caress, and the hand in his holding on as tightly as he did, it was a moment of purest, simplest clarity that could not even have been foreseen in the epiphany-like dreams or visions – whatever they had been – he had had the previous nights.

“All I want is... is this. What we started together. With everybody,” he started, something wide and big spreading in his chest that was not entirely pleasant or unpleasant. And he needed to spell it out completely, needed to say the words that would express what he had denied himself to realize all along. “All I want is you.”

It was then that Charles seemed to let go of his last remaining restraint and doubts, and he leaned forward to wrap his other arm tightly around Erik's shoulders, pull him near and let the tears flow freely that forced their way out of him with unrestrained sobs.

“Can you forgive me?” Erik whispered against the side of Charles' head as they embraced more closely than he could remember they had ever done. Even in the moments they had shared most intimately, they had never held on to each other with such need and sheer desperation.

“Oh God, Erik, of course I forgive you,” Charles said more willingly than Erik thought he deserved. Maybe it would really take some time for him to be fully able to forgive himself. There was a lot to work through, for both of them it seemed. And a lot to face. Together.

When he slowly withdrew a bit from the embrace, their foreheads still touching, Erik also let go of Charles' hand and let his own gently rest on the unmoving knee, and he realized there was something else he needed to say, a second, most important truth that he needed get out now, no matter if his nightly visions had shown him the truth, and most importantly if they hadn't.

“I'm sorry for what I've done to you,” he said and heard a faint gasp leave Charles' lips, but he continued. “But you must know that none of this matters to me. So if you can forgive me for this as well, I still...” He didn't know how to say it, how to express how much he still wanted Charles, not any less than before, and probably even more now that he had gone through what it meant to lose Charles. But he did not find any words that could sufficiently express just how much he wanted Charles in every way, how much he loved him. And so he did the only thing that he could think of to let deeds say more than words and leaned up to bring their lips together in a firm kiss, suppressing his need to breathe in deeply, needing to make sure Charles understood, felt it with every fiber of his being as much as did Erik.

“Oh Erik,” Charles sighed as their lips parted, and there was something sad and regretful in his blue eyes as he looked down at him. For a moment, Erik feared that Charles would say he did not want him in this way any longer – for whatever reason; be it that he had to deal with his disability first or could not imagine a relationship of more than a platonic kind in the near future. Or ever. Though in that case Erik was determined to make sure it wouldn't be due to Charles thinking he was in some way inadequate.

“I believe I've done you a terrible injustice,” Charles continued and bit his lower lip for a moment. “You see, the bullet that hit me – which was a terrible accident in the first place, well, it didn't cause any lasting damage.”

Erik wasn't sure if Charles was saying what he thought it implied, and he could not help the faint gasp of confusion leaving his lips as he looked up at Charles with furrowed brow. He could not deny that each of the three nightly visits had left an enormous impact on him, but in the end he had found it most likely and most logical that all of them had just been a way of his subconscious to lead him to the realization that was more important than any of these details. But if they had shown the truth, had shown reality after all...

“You're not paralyzed?” It was not quite a question addressed at Charles but almost a realization for himself.

“No, I... well, technically I am since... You... you do not sound surprised. Did somebody tell you? Did Raven speak to anyone about this and they just didn't tell me?” Confusion rose and rose with each question, noticeable in Charles' tone and features, and Erik could not help but let out a faint, breathless laugh of relief.

And utter amazement.

“It is a very long story, but no, nobody told me,” he replied then and placed his hand back on Charles' knee, caressing it softly as he looked up into his eyes. “Do you feel anything?”

“I feel... happy,” Charles replied with a faint chuckle, but his legs remained unmoving.

And that was all that mattered. To Erik, at least, and he hoped to Charles as well. Whether the paralysis was really only temporary and would start lifting come tomorrow, or in a few weeks, months, years, or never, it may have initially changed the amount of guilt Erik had felt for that terrible accident, but it didn't change the way Erik felt about Charles. And it never would.

“H-how do you know this though?” Charles asked, the confusion not completely absent from his tone and features despite the lasting smile.

Erik let out a curt chuckle and lowered his gaze. “Well, I suppose I've been... Scrooged.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Another amused, if rather thin chuckle that Erik found came over his lips quite naturally. “I'll explain everything to you, but as I've said it's a rather long story. Though, if you had a copy of Dickens' 'A Christmas Carol' somewhere around here...”

“You're not making any more sense, I'm afraid,” Charles said, confusion mingling with amusement as well, though he did take another deep breath and blink away the moisture – tears of pure joy now – that formed in his eyes. “But you're right. We have all the time in the world for you to explain.”

“Well,” Erik shrugged. “I suppose I'll take that as a gentle hint that we have a Christmas party to continue?”

“If you don't mind celebrating it.”

He shrugged again, though his hand remained on Charles' knee, caressing even though the other man couldn't feel it. “You do know your Jesus was born in late summer anyway, don't you? So, no, I don't mind celebrating a Pagan holiday.”

Charles laughed out, freely and in pure amusement, and shook his head. “Oh, my friend... My love. How I've missed your sense of humor,” he said and gently caressed the side of Erik's face. It was impossible then to resist to lean in for another kiss, and this time the contact of their lips lasted longer, more tender and patient to slowly re-built what had never been fully broken.

The others could wait just a minute longer.

~ The End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a New Year's Eve sequel to this, for those of you who have been hoping for a chapter with a slightly higher rating than PG-13... if you know what I'm saying ;)   
> I hope you did enjoy the story and its ending. Merry Christmas to you all! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Translations :  
> I suppose "oui" and "merci" are understood ^^  
> \- Here. Just some bread, but I'll bring you a few apples tomorrow. Alright?  
> \- Did you understand me? I'm sorry, but I don't speak German.  
> \- Ah, good. Mom has told me you speak a little French. My name is Claire. And you are Erik?  
> \- How come? Have you learned French at school?  
> \- No. My father taught me.
> 
> I was pondering whether I should also make the German parts German, but that was a whole lot of dialogue, and the entire conversations, inner thoughts etc. are probably happening in German anyway – in fact, I would have had to write almost the entire story in German ^^ So I just included some French.  
> I also tried to find out a bit more about Erik's family. In the end, I went with the infos I could find on Wikipedia and what we knew from the movie, as this is movie-verse. And I made a name up for Erik's mother because I couldn't find it anywhere.  
> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Like I said, the next one will be posted tomorrow as it's already finished and beta-read.


End file.
